Then I Don't Feel So Bad
by TheMiner'sCanary
Summary: Clara and the Doctor are captured, and the Doctor bargained with the authorities to let him work off the debt. Clara is imprisoned in a sadistic chamber, and the only way she can keep from harm is singing. Rated T for...ummm...creepiness? This was mostly an idea fic
1. Chapter 1

Everything was black. Her head pulsed with a dull, growing ache. Her stomach gurgled minutely. She heaved a sigh and felt her ribs shift uncomfortably, her shoulders rising and falling stiffly.

Clara Oswin Owald and the Doctor had gotten themselves into a jam, once again. _Not like that's normal or anything_ she though sardonically. She stood on tiptoe with her arms stretched upward at 45 degree angles, her wrists cruelly manacled with silver, rough clamps bound by chains that disappeared up…up…up…there was a round, metal ceiling above, one that didn't match her cylindrical surroundings. Opening her eyes in an exhausted squint, she gazed at the damp stone bricks ahead. Eyeing a slow drip slide in the brick grooves, the darkness came for her again. She shut her eyes, replaying the day.

 _"_ _Clara! Split!" he yelled, guiding her route down a slick alleyway while he himself dodged the divider and slipped beneath a cart, zipping uncoordinatedly through the populated marketplace. And they had split. First mistake._

 _She'd continued, hearing the clip-clop of her pursuers as the floor she pounded across became a downhill slope…she wouldn't be able to see very soon. Had he lead her to a dead end?_

 _"_ _You've nowhere to run dearie, best come with us!" grated her pursuer, a rugged, tech-clad man on horseback who probably hadn't had a bath in his life. His silver teeth and blue-lighted cyborg eye glinted in the flickering, simulated torchlight. "Do come dearie, we promise a good time!" hooted another, earning "oooo"s and whoops of agreement._

 _Not in a million years, she thinks, rolling her eyes as she escapes the torchlight._

 _As her sight completely dissipates in the blackness, a familiar hand grabs her wrist and pulls her aside. She breaks into a grin and runs with the Doctor, only to be stopped short by torchlight coming from the other side. "You didn't get rid of them?" she said incredulously. "Well, I thought I lost them…" shrugged the Doctor….after that they'd been lead to the Overseer, separated, and imprisoned in their own separate cells—the usual capture._

That'd been early this morning. She guess it'd have to be about 2:30 by now, because she was ravenously hungry. She could always eat a horse at 2:30, that heavenly minute the bell strikes, the students saunter and waddle and sprint away, the odd colleague stop for a chat…and then home to her flat. Home to a nice long soak and a coffee or a tea, maybe picking up some takeout on special days like Tuesdays and Fridays. Oh, how she longed to be home and warm and cozy…her head fell forward against her chest, her dry mouth watering at the prospect of anything food or snack, especially the remainder of that cinnamon-french-toast bagel left over from yesterday…

Her feet gave way and she hung limply, straining her arms uncomfortably. She watched her feet dangle, inches above the floor when she heard a creaaaaaak and saw a thin stream of foul-looking yellow liquid cascade towards her. Immediately standing on tiptoe so as to stop the flow, she hoped desperately that it wasn't urine.

She got her wish. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

She screamed as a torrent of pain burned through her skin and melted the sinews of her neck, vowing to never _ever_ ** _ever_** go flat-foot again. Her sobs echoed through the chamber, the acrid smell of burning flesh intensified by the humidity of the dungeon. Once more, the darkness swallowed her, the borders of her vision degrading in smoldering rings of crimson.


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor had negotiated a sentence for himself, convincing the Overseer that he, an able-bodied male with experience, could work off the bail of himself and his companion instead of rotting in jail and wasting his resources. The lord agreed, and sentence him to work off both bails…at half-credit. The Doctor, now stripped to his green printed t-shirt and plaid pants torn at the knees, hauled chains in the shipping canal Jean-Val-Jean style with countless other criminals and "criminals" alike. Great metal machines guided the ships to the rails via laser coordinates, yet none drew them forward.

The spray of the sea salted his hair and stung his various abrasions, his hands raw from the splintering rope gripped roughly in his hands. He hauled his length of rope in time with all the other tireless human males, enslaved, without hope…he hung his head in the tragedy of it all. These humans…capable of such achievements yet confined not only by their biological ephemerality but by each other as well. Soon, these people would realize their own undoing…pressured by wars and environmental disputes, there would be a compacted horror that would terrorize all heavily populated, modernized eras, and send every inch of their lives reeling in chaos and fear. The called it The Enlightenment of 2200. Once the atrocities of war and death were understood, the humans went mad with the fear of their own demise. They endured their lives in constant fear of the day they would die, having life-clocks (watches that counted down your death) strapped on from the second they entered the world. Fear and tragedy and-WHOOSH! An elephantine, chilled wave slammed into the Doctor's line head on, knocking the wind from him and soaking what was left of his person. He eyed the captivity cell, a white laser grid encasing the scene, willing it to flicker—to falter at any moment.

He needed to find Clara and escape as soon as possible, before the chaos ensued. At least his bargain got him out of that claustrophobic dungeon.


	3. Chapter 3

Clara had remained on tip-toe, the blood on her back and neck long since dried, the wounds still achy. At least she didn't feel the stiffness of her shoulders anymore. She'd managed to stay awake, alternating feet so as not to give herself another acid-shower. Her stomach rumbled again. She felt hollow. _Just let the Doctor save me, so we can get out of here and continue like we always do. Please…_

The cell door to her right creaked open, and one of the cyborg guards set a tray of food and water at her feet. Grinning through his inhumane, metallic features, he simply hobbled back to the door left. "Wait! How am I supposed to feed myself?" she called. Genuinely befuddled as to why they would even go through the trouble of preparing the meal, she reached out with her toe, intent on silencing her yowling stomach and her throbbing headache. She needed protein and sugar and carbs and liquid and…almost…nearly…there "Gotchya," she whispered, dragging the silver tray towards her with her, the cold rims beneath her red toes. Maybe she could throw the bread up…? Her mind whirred in thought, interrupted by her stomach and worsening headache. Seeing no alternative, she balanced the roll on top of her grimy foot, cradling it against her upturned toes…and alley-oop! She saw the bread rise, moving to pluck it out of the air with her teeth…when, of course, it fell short. In an impulsive move of despair, she went flat-foot to catch the bread on her thigh. Cccccccrreeeaakk…

Her face instantly lost all color, both feet straining to stand at their highest tip…she dared to look up. The acid orifice had closed, thankfully. She had moved quickly enough. Forgetting the bread, she emitted a sigh of relief. Eyeing the water at her feet, she tried not to focus on ridding her mouth of thick, sour saliva. _Hurry up, Doctor, you great Scottish oaf._

He'd spent two days working in the shipyards before he was able to negotiate his way to a higher position, mainly by manipulation and his usual cleverness. _Think otters_.

Using the resources available, he'd managed to design and fashion an entirely new method of guiding in the ships that would reduce to the cost of the operations, increase the quantity of boats lead in, and lower the odds of damaging said ships in the transactions. He was given a raise…of a penny. His debt now remained at a daunting $1,999.75. Cleverly, he'd devised an escape plan during the construction of his work for himself and any other opportunistic slaves who had the brains to recognize freedom. Now, he just needed to get started.

He thought longingly of his Impossible Girl, already planning a make-up trip to a paradise planet in a spider nebula lightyears away….

He'd gone this trip without sleep, and was now regretting he hadn't squeezed in a quick nap before picking up Clara. He thought longingly of the cool, damp, stone floor of the cell Clara must be held in as he stepped out into yet another day of blistering heat.

She endured the familiar throb of a sleep-headache that seemed to have been palpitating against her skull for hours upon hours.

She endured the spasms of cramps that bolted up her calves like electric shocks.

She endured the emptiness devouring her insides, the dry coughs and the foul, thick saliva coating the inside of her mouth.

She endured the numbness of her shoulders and the permanent pins-and-needles sensation she felt in her hands and fingers every time she forced a deep breath or sighed.

She even endured the painful tenderness of her red feet beginning to blister.

What she could not endure, however, was going so long without sleep. So long…so exhausted…

Every time Clara felt tempted to let her head droop, her mind screamed at her to stand on tip-toe. Her neck and shoulders and back still ached from her recent shower, and the scabbing pulled at the healing skin with every breath. Her thoughts came slower now. Clara's usually wicked-quick metacognitive skills were barely sentient.

The only thing to keep her awake and alert and acid free, was a song. Singing, and trying to remember the lyrics in the right order. Any odd song her decaying mind could remember, she hummed or whistled, sung out or cried.

"So don't you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me, I said you're holdin back, she said shut up and dance with me…" echoed eerily in her personal torture chamber, the peppy-pop beat gradually slowing, quieting, and then repeating itself with a renewed fervor.


	4. Chapter 4

The Doctor was very pleased with himself. His escape plan had worked magnificently, and now he was bee-lining his way to the dungeons, where he knew his Clara Oswald was kept. Oh, she'd be so glad to see him, and they'd hop in the TARDIS and leave this place for good and—

A weak voice trickled up from the grate he was standing on. Staring in concern, he stood stock-still and listened.

"…stuck in reveeerrrsee….liiights will guuiiiiiiiiide you home, and igniiiiiiiiiiite your bones, and I will try…..to fix you…nananananananananananananaannananananaa….."

Tilting his head, he thought he recognized that voice, edging on delirium and devoid of thought. There was no depth behind it.

"Nothin's gonna harm you….not while I'm around…..nothin's gonna harm you darling not while I'm around…"

"Clara?" He breathed, disbelieving…her voice was clear as a bell but he had never heard her more distraught and hopeless, broken even. Not when she'd stumbled into his arms at Trenzalore, not when she'd snapped and banished him after their encounter with the moon…this was equivalent to when P.E had died, only it was a different kind of distraught. And he hated it with every fiber of his being. Reaching down, he shifted the manhole with a grunt.

"Demons may charm you for a while….with…a smile…" the voice broke into quiet sobs "but in tiiiiiimme…." The heartbreak of tears commenced, echoing upwards to where he kneeled, horror and disbelief clawing at his hearts and causing his breath to catch…what had happened? He was only away for, what, four/five days? Well, for _him_ it had been. Perhaps he'd miscounted.

He hurried.

Spying the acid bin, he bit back tears and removed the mechanisms, carefully emptying the acid against the nearest wall of the cell.

"Nothin can harm you…not while I'm arroouund" the voice finished, oblivious to her rescuer relieving her of the torture. He began to scale the walls, lower, lower, lower. She continued to stand as high as she could. She hadn't felt pain in days. She hadn't felt in days. The only things for her were the words and the notes, and she couldn't tell you what they meant, what they were, where they came from, couldn't even tell you she didn't know where they came from. She simply didn't exist in her head. She could not think to know she was not thinking. Blankness. Just emptiness.

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens"

The Doctor sonic-ed the chains holding Clara up as he clung to the cold metal rungs of a ladder descending the cell wall. The chains fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Clara slumped to the floor, an abandoned puppet, unmoving. She hadn't protected her head or her face, but instinct mandated that her arms be thrown to the ground first. She lay immobile.

"Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens"

Completing his descent, the Doctor lowered himself to Clara with the clumsy strength of his sore arms.

"Brown paper packages tied up with strings"

He approached her prone form cautiously, stepping around several trays of bread and water clearly picked over by rats.

"Clara…we can go now," he tested quietly.

She didn't turn to look at him, just continuing in that clear, emotionless, _Claraless_ voice that sent chills down his spine and froze his hearts.

"These are a few of my favorite things"

Her back was to him, and he saw the shreds of skin and singed clothing, the now freshly-broken scabs of her neck and shoulders beginning to ooze with thick crimson in slow motion. This was too much. This was _sick_. "Clara, we need to get you out of here. Now!" And with this, he rushed at her, scooped her up tenderly and hustled toward the door.

"When the dog—"

"SHhhhhh Clara, we need to be quiet now"

"—bites, when the bee stings"

"Clara"

"—when I'm feeling sad"

" _Clara_ , sleep Clara" he said, touching his middle finger to her forehead. Something was horribly off. "I simply re mem ber…my…fa…vo…rite…things" Her singing had fizzled to a halt, but her eyes remained open and glassy.

As he stepped through the hallway, his charge breathed "…and then I don't feel soooo bad," and her head lolled forward to curl into his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

_I've continued this fic upon a couple requests :) I hope this is what you were looking for. Reviews welcome, enjoy!_

Locating the TARDIS in a nearby cell was easy enough. What was not easy, however, was knowing what to do with Clara. Her eyes had drooped shut, but he knew she wasn't sleeping. That's it, _Clara is sleeping, her body's just not cooperating. She's on autopilot, but the captain is safe._ Convincing himself she was alright underneath everything was the first step. He had decided he was going to win, yet again. Another victory.

Now he just needed to find exactly how he was going to do this.

Her physical injuries were the most pressing matter—her lacerated and inflamed back, shoulders, and neck were still oozing thick blood as clots began to form. Each shift cracked the delicate attempts of renewal. The Doctor's arms stung as he treaded smoothly to the TARDIS' med bay, his mind reeling with the most efficient treatments for acid burns. A procedure blooming to life in his mind, he gently lay her face-down on the cushioned white slab.

With the utmost care, he raised her head with firm hands and positioned her more comfortably, so she would face him if _WHEN_ , he corrected himself, WHEN she woke up her usual Clara-y self. All full of passion and kindness and bravery and anger, and that smile that lit up his lonely time machine and made everything worth it.

Everything was worth it, when she was around.

Strapping a nebulizer mask to her face, he toyed around with various medicines in the cabinet until he concocted a safe mix of something for pain, for sleep, for general well-feeling, and a heavy relaxer. Inserting a vile of his homemade narcotic, the Doctor ran a steady hand through his silvery fluff, ruffling it a bit.

A sigh escaped his lips, and his brow rose in deep thought. "What do I do?" he inquired of his TARDIS. His ship pounded a low knell that echoed comfortingly in the sterile, white room. "Library," he repeated. "I'll fix her up and then have a good read about sleep deprivation, yeah?" His ship released another moan of agreement before he set to work. God, he was tired, but Clara was more important than an old man's nap.

All was fine until he attempted to clean her decaying flesh. Something about the sting of alcohol on vulnerable flesh _always_ made humans recoil, hiss, invent expletives, or screech.

The damp cleansing pad was still pressed into her back when she cried out in a muffled gurgle.

"Clara, it's okay." He rested a hand on her arm and rubbed his thumb against the crook of her elbow. To his dismay, it wasn't Clara who answered. Not really. Not Clara. _I'm not done yet._

"Breathe deeply. It'll be—" he tried to continue but a weak whine interrupted him. Tears were beginning to burn in his eyes. He'd never lose track of time again, not ever. "Don't you fret…" her exhausted voice sang feebly. The Doctor hurried. The faster he could read up on this, the faster she would be back. "Sleep Clara. Deep breaths. Just sleep." He knew using his dad-skills could be too risky. What she was didn't count as awake anyway. "M'sieur Marius…"

The Doctor was nearly finished dabbing at her wounds. Despite the dire situation, his face cracked into a grin as he reached to stroke her hair. Le Miserable. She'd been ecstatic when the musical came to Earth's film industry. "I don't feeeeel any pain…" Smiling to himself, the Doctor began to administer ointment and nanogene-infused bandages.

"A littlllee fall of raaaain….can hardly hurt me now" she breathed through the lyrics, her voice inflection just enough to break his hearts. That is, if he let it get to him. But, he had a job to do. He still had to win. "Clara," he spoke above her mindless song, "Clara, this might hurt a bit. The pain will stop, so don't—" but her volume increased, and her tone demanded an audience.

Wait. _Wait. Her tone._ "Clara can you hear me?" The Doctor flew to her eye level, cupping her face in his hands. Her song had restarted. She'd never restarted before.

"I don't feeeeel any pain…a little fall of raaaain…can hardly…hurt me now. You're here," she faltered slightly.

"I'm HERE Clara, I'm here, you're in the TARDIS, you're safe now. _Trust me_ ," he spoke lowly and quickly. She was still in there. He'd thought…..but no, he mustn't think of that now.

"That's all I need to know…" she continued, her blank face flashing the smallest smile in a minute, millisecond-twitch of the corner of her mouth. Or not, maybe he imagined it.

"And you will keep me safe."

"Always Clara, as best as I can." He smiled, the flare of hope in his heart now crackling once more.

"And you…will…"

A harsh beeping from a nearby monitor (that looked comically similar to the original Star Trek Enterprise's) shocked him out of the moment. His brow furrowed into attack mode and the Doctor flew to the screen, his ragged coat catching on a tray of instruments and sending them scattering to the floor in a metallic cacophony. "nonONONOOO" he growled, grasping the screen as he watched her vital signs begin to fall.

"keep…me close." Her voice faltered. The Doctor flung himself to Clara's side, upsetting the hovering lamp and fumbling with a butterfly syringe and a small vial of clear liquid.

The machine's beeping grew more obnoxious, and the TARDIS began to panic. The deep thrum of her lament sent shudders through the bay.

"And rain…"

Stopper in mouth, the Doctor's black figure loomed over his patient as his weathered, steady hands completed the vacuum of the syringe. The lamp swung manically and cast dizzying, frantic shadows around Clara's immobile form.

He injected the liquid into her arm and faced the monitor again, stoic and serious. The lines on his face seemed more prominent. He waited.

Her haunting voice became distant in the tension of the moment. "Will make the flowers…"

"….grow…."

The doctor could physically feel the weights being lifted off his chest as the monitor's beeping slowed and quieted to a background bleep no different than a clock's sure tick. A breath escaped him and he placed a hand on Clara's shoulder.

Bandages now secure, he silently cleaned the area. Silence. She must have finally fallen asleep.

With the aid of the medication, Clara should sleep soundly for a minimum of 12 hours.

2 days later.

A fuzziness greeted Clara Oswald. Giving herself a moment, she began to resurface. The feel of the padded mat beneath her, a thin blanket above her, and something unknown pressed against her wrist slowly began to sink into her conscious mind. She felt, mentally, that she could breathe again. _She could breathe, and it was_ good.

Focusing on the unknown, she recognized the gentle pressure of fingertips on her pulse. Inhaling deeply, she felt her ribs crack into place and she maneuvered her hand so that it held the stranger's. _No, hang on, not stranger. Definitely not stranger._ She smiled inwardly. Safety.

She opened her eyes and peaked out from behind the covers of the maroon blanket. "I see you," she sung childishly.

"Oh, Clara Oswald, it's nice to see you too," rumbled a familiar voice. She could hear the smile of her best friend near the end, and she knew that everything was going to be fine, that it already was. She could also hear one of her favorite tones in his voice—the tone of a hard-fought victory.


End file.
